Pamper Day Quotes

We must distinguish between ‘sentimental’ and ‘sensitive’. A sentimentalist may be a perfect brute in his free time. A sensitive person is never a cruel person. Sentimental Rousseau, who could weep over a progressive idea, distributed his many natural children through various poorhouses and workhouses and never gave a hoot for them. A sentimental old maid may pamper her parrot and poison her niece. The sentimental politician may remember Mother’s Day and ruthlessly destroy a rival. Stalin loved babies. Lenin sobbed at the opera, especially at the Traviata.

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

May your Valentine’s Day be filled with adoration, pampering, and a pair of gorgeous, tiny-heeled Jimmy Choo sandals that are completely useless in this weather. Just remember: You are totally worth it.

Breakfast! My favorite meal- and you can be so creative. I think of bowls of sparkling berries and fresh cream, baskets of Popovers and freshly squeezed orange juice, thick country bacon, hot maple syrup, panckes and French toast - even the nutty flavor of Irish oatmeal with brown sugar and cream. Breaksfast is the place I splurge with calories, then I spend the rest of the day getting them off! I love to use my prettiest table settings - crocheted placemats with lace-edged napkins and old hammered silver. And whether you are inside in front of a fire, candles burning brightly on a wintery day - or outside on a patio enjoying the morning sun - whether you are having a group of friends and family, a quiet little brunch for two, or an even quieter little brunch just for yourself, breakfast can set the mood and pace of the whole day. And Sunday is my day. Sometimes I think we get caught up in the hectic happenings of the weeks and months and we forget to take time out to relax. So one Sunday morning I decided to do things differently - now it's gotten to be a sort of ritual! This is what I do: at around 8:30 am I pull myself from my warm cocoon, fluff up the pillows and blankets and put some classical music on the stereo. Then I'm off to the kitchen, where I very calmly (so as not to wake myself up too much!) prepare my breakfast, seomthing extra nice - last week I had fresh pineapple slices wrapped in bacon and broiled, a warm croissant, hot chocolate with marshmallows and orange juice. I put it all on a tray with a cloth napkin, my book-of-the-moment and the "Travel" section of the Boston Globe and take it back to bed with me. There I spend the next two hours reading, eating and dreaming while the snowflakes swirl through the treetops outside my bedroom window. The inspiring music of Back or Vivaldi adds an exquisite elegance to the otherwise unruly scene, and I am in heaven. I found time to get in touch with myself and my life and i think this just might be a necessity! Please try it for yourself, and someone you love.

It’s funny, how for an entire lifetime we keep thinking ‘How’ will our life-partner look like, how will he be? How will he react to a particular situation? How will he get angry, and how will we love and pamper him? We have so many questions like if he will accept me the way I am? Or if I have to change for him? We all have made plans for our future, subconsciously. We don’t exactly plan out everything with a pen and paper, it’s something that happens automatically, just like an involuntary action. Whenever we are alone and our mood is good, we usually think about our life with our partner. The days and nights in his arms, and the time that we will reserve for him. But when all that turns into reality, it’s strikingly different. Everything that you thought, seems to be a joke, and life laughs at you from a distance! You are helpless and can’t do anything about it, but have to accept it the way it is. You are totally caught into a web of dilemmas and problems before you realize that this is the time you waited for, and that this is the time you dreamt about! You have to make efforts, compromises, sacrifices and you have to change yourselves too sometimes to make things work. You can never expect to get a partner exactly the way you thought or dreamt about. It’s always different in reality and it’s always tough to make both ends meet for a relationship to work, but you have to! It’s your relationship, if you won’t work for it, who else will?

He could not believe that ordinary people in the Culture really wanted the war, no matter how they had voted. They had their communist Utopia. They were soft and pampered and indulged, and the Contact section’s evangelical materialism provided their conscience-salving good works. What more could they want? The war had to be the Mind’s idea; it was part of their clinical drive to clean up the galaxy, make it run on nice, efficient lines, without waste, injustice or suffering. The fools in the Culture couldn’t see that one day the Minds would start thinking how wasteful and inefficient the humans in the Culture themselves were.

Why I waited until the last days of my life to feel pampered and beautiful. People tell themselves there’s plenty of time to do it all, but most of the time they never see death coming.

A person has only so much juice, and it’s ideally kept for your homeboys, not all pissed away on strangers before three in the day. Simple as that sounds, it was a game changer for me. I taught myself to save the juice. It’s a skill, like weight training, you do reps. Tell yourself ten times each night, don’t spend your juice on those sirens, worrying about the life screaming past on its way to getting tanked. Don’t spend it on the customers around you at Walmart Supercenter, just do your job without feeling the madness or sadness, the moms on the brink of snatching their kids bald-headed. The carts loaded with cases of PBR and Pampers.

So when that time comes, make sure to pick the one you can’t live without. The one that lifts you up and never lets you touch the ground. The one that loves you so much, he’ll put you first above anything else. The one that will love you on the sunny days, but love you most through the heavy, thunderous storms. Let him pamper you, shelter you, and romance you till he’s given his all. And in return, love hard and give back everything he’d given you.

For her a day of pampering meant comic books, black liquorice, serious exercise, veggie curry and, above all, solitude.

You don't force him, don't beat him, don't give him orders, because you know that 'soft' is stronger than 'hard', Water stronger than rocks, love stronger than force. Very good, I praise you. But aren't you mistaken in thinking that you wouldn't force him, wouldn't punish him? Don't you shackle him with your love? Don't you make him feel inferior every day, and don't you make it even harder on him with your kindness and patience? Don't you force him, the arrogant and pampered boy, to live in a hut with two old banana-eaters, to whom even rice is a delicacy, whose thoughts can't be his, whose hearts are old and quiet and beats in a different pace than his? Isn't forced, isn't he punished by all this?

You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

Given that the majority of communication to which we are subjected in a day consists of advertising, if nearly all of that advertising insists on regarding us as pampered children, what does that do to us? It winds us up with a godforsaken second term of smarmy granddad President Ronald Wilson Reagan for one.

How had it never occurred to him the peril in which women walked every day, even the most pampered of them? How valiant the simple act of being a woman was in so many ways.

The struggle of life defines you. You are not a pampered pet; you are a savage hunter.

She grew up in the days when lamps ran on whale blubber, guitars were strung with catgut, and pig brains were a delicacy. Imposing my pampered millennial morality on the situation would be an insult to her entire generation.

In the bathroom, I studied my body, trying to see what he had seen. My hipbones were more prominent than I remembered, probably from all the days of being unable to eat after discovering Jonathan’s betrayal. My thinness suddenly angered me. Why had I punished myself when it had been him that had been at fault? I should have pampered myself, nurtured my soul with my favourite foods and wine and spent time with friends instead of languishing at home and drowning myself in work.

God’s love is not a pampering love. God’s love is a perfecting love. God does not get up every day trying to figure how He can plant a bigger smile on your face. God is in the process of growing us and changing us. His love is a transforming love.

Heart; I named my lass sweetly; She danced to the mundane tunes of daftness; By nature she was midsummer madness; Or rather a reckless, careless, devil-may-care colleen. I pampered all her hefty desires; Brain; my friend said treat her with caution; For she is a child; doesn’t ruminate her action; You are mother, with deep devotion. And one fine day came the tempest darling; She named him love, besotted and infatuated; Enchanted by his charms, smelled the roses; Failed to see the thorns that pricked. And drip-drip-drip, the blood it dripped; When her beloved tossed and crushed her core; She knew not how to stand up straight; I opened my eyes and the driblets fell. Don’t nurse her; said my friend; my brain; For she is a demented lass not worth the pain; She will go away when her wounds are dried; To her unmoved brutal hero, Love. A mother cannot be unmoved, I cried; For all this time, I held her high; I knocked at your door, you flinty villain; Not to hear, all that you said. Call me a demon or a dragon; For all I will say is don’t nurse the brat; Let her bleed and cry for some more time; She will get up; for she is your child. All he said was unerred truth; She bled and nursed her own wounds; She drove me to her hero’s place; And said, “This is where my poem stays.

Stop being cruel." "The world is cruel. This world is, anyway. Tell me, Your Ladyship, what's it like in your fairy-tale land?" She snatched the shilling from his hand. As he looked on in irritation, she stood, cocked her arm, and winged the coin with all her strength. He pushed to his feet. "You just tossed away a perfectly good shilling. I can't imagine a better example of your pampered existence. That's a day's wages for a workingman." "You have millions of shillings, as you're so fond of telling everyone." "Yes, but I never forget that I came from far less. I couldn't forget that, even if I tried." "I have tried to forget. To forget where I came from, to deny the past. You don't know how I've tried." Her voice crumbled at the edges. "I may not have known poverty, but that doesn't mean I haven't known pain." Gabe pushed a hand through his hair. He recognized the ring of truth in her voice. She was being honest, and he was being an ass. Her character was finally coming into focus. He didn't know who or what had hurt her, but the blade had sunk deep. The world didn't hold enough kittens to fill that wound- but that hadn't stopped her from trying.

We must distinguish between "sentimental" and "sensitive." A sentimentalist may be a perfect brute in his free time. A sensitive person is never a cruel person. Sentimental Rousseau, who could weep over a progressive idea, distributed his many natural children through various poorhouses and workhouses and never gave a hoot for them. A sentimental old maid may pamper her parrot and poison her niece. The sentimental politician may remember Mother's Day and ruthlessly destroy a rival. Stalin loved babies. Lenin sobbed at the opera, especially at the Traviata. A whole century of authors praised the simple life of the poor, and so on. Remember that when we speak of sentimentalists, among them Richardson, Rousseau, Dostoevski, we mean the non-artistic exaggeration of familiar emotions meant to provoke automatically traditional compassion in the reader.

Now we are either horrified or pretend to be horrified, though we really gloat over the spectacle, and love strong and eccentric sensations which tickle our cynical, pampered idleness. Or, like little children, we brush the dreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow so as to return to our sports and merriment as soon as they have vanished. But we must one day begin life in sober earnest, we must look at ourselves as a society; it’s time we tried to grasp something of our social position, or at least to make a beginning in that direction.

It felt good to scrub my skin, as if I was removing everything that felt dead about me. I was the "queen of skin care." Who knew that simply exfoliating my skin until raw (which I knew better than to do but now couldn't resist) would one day be what was left of my skin care regimen? My daily cleansing and moisturizing, weekly hydrating and purifying masks, along with monthly photo facials, glycolic peels, or microdermabrasion, was down to "super-scrub Saturdays." Pampering was a thing of the past. No more sunscreen applications to guard against the "UVAging" rays that were out to get me 365 days a year. No more weekly Epsom salts hot baths to detox my body, or lathering up with my favorite vanilla-scented moisturizing cream. No more applications of extra virgin olive oil to the ends of my hair to prevent splitting. I didn't even treat myself to my bedtime chamomile tea. All that had been replaced by a new nightly ritual of passing out on the bed, face down, which went against my cardinal rule of youth maintenance. Before the deep hollow pain was born inside me, I slept on my back, at the perfect thirty-degree angle to ensure proper circulation and prevention of any unnecessary creasing or wrinkling.

[The eighteenth century] was the century, as we are frequently told, of women - the intellectual life of women in salons, women wielding unseen influence, women as members of academies, theatrical productions whose success depended on the power of actresses to charm; in the economic sphere, financiers amassing great fortunes in order to marry their daughters into the aristocracy, and women ruling over whole peoples and empires: Maria Theresa, Catherine the Great, Queen Elisabeth Farnese of Spain, as well as the likes of Mme du Pompadour and Mme du Barry. It was as if some residual matriarchy - the oldest culture of the Mediterranean - was struggling to emerge from the blood and the collective unconscious; as if the time would one day return when, in every tribe, it was the women who possessed wealth and power and the men who 'married out', moving into the wife's extended family, where they became gentle, pampered, more or less superfluous drones. [...] In the century of women, it was inevitable that these erotic legends should attach themselves to the outstanding female figures of the time [...] and all this applied even more strongly in France. It was there that women reached the greatest positions of power, and there that this erotic momentum was at its strongest, by virtue of the traditions and nature of the French people.

As a nation, our people are pampering themselves and living for their own pleasures. They won't take the trouble or endure the pain required to bear and to rear children; and the day is rolling toward us, with every turn of the planet one day closer, when we are going to be outnumbered by a combination of peoples who can take our own tricks and beat us with them. We must pass along the good word that the one thing America needs above every other thing on earth is HOMES AND HEARTS BIG ENOUGH FOR CHILDREN, as were the homes of our grandfathers, when no joy in life equaled the joy of a new child in the family, and if you didn't have a dozen you weren't doing your manifest duty.

How long have you known about him?” I asked Jesse, using my free hand to gesture toward his guest. “Forever. Nearly as long as I did about you.” “God, Jesse. Why didn’t you say anything?” “He was a shadow of you.” Jesse shrugged. “His background is diluted, his dragon blood les strong. Even with you in his proximity, I wasn’t certain any of his drakon traits would emerge. He hasn’t anywhere near your potential.” “Pardon me,” Armand said, freezingly polite, “but he is still right here with you in this room.” “Do you mean…I did it?” I asked. “I made him figure it out? What he is?” Jesse gave me an assessing look. “Like is drawn to like. We’re all three of us thick with magic now, even if it’s different kinds. It’s inevitable that we’ll feed off one another. The only way to prevent that would be to separate. And even then it might not be enough. Too much has already begun.” “I don’t want to separate from you,” I said. “No.” Jesse lifted our hands and gave mine a kiss. “Don’t worry about that.” Armand practically rolled his eyes. “If you two are quite done, might we talk some sense tonight? It’s late, I’m tired, and your ruddy chair, Holms, is about as comfortable as sitting on a tack. I want to…” But his voice only faded into silence. He closed his eyes and raised a hand to his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose. I noted again those shining nails. The elegance of his bones beneath his flawless skin. Skin that was marble-pale, I realized. Just like mine. “Yes?” I said, more gently than I’d intended. “Excuse me. I’m finding this all a bit…impossible to process. I’m beginning to believe that this is the most profoundly unpleasant dream I’ve ever been caught in.” “Allow me to assure you that you’re awake, Lord Armand,” I retorted, all gentleness gone. “To wit: You hear music no one else does. Distinctive music from gemstones and all sorts of metals. That day I played the piano at Tranquility, I was playing your father’s ruby song, one you must have heard exactly as I did. Exactly as your mother would have. You also have, perhaps, something like a voice inside you. Something specific and base, stronger than instinct, hopeless to ignore. Animals distrust you. You might even dream of smoke or flying.” He dropped his arm. “You got that from the diary.” “No, I got that from my own life. And damned lucky you are to have been brought into this world as a pampered little prince instead of spending your childhood being like this and still having to fend for yourself, as I did.” “Right. Lucky me.” Armand looked at Jesse, his eyes glittering. “And what are you? Another dragon? A gargoyle, perchance, or a werecat?” “Jesse is a star.” The hand went up to conceal his face again. “Of course he is. The. Most. Unpleasant. Dream. Ever.” I separated my hand from Jesse’s, angling for more bread. “I think you’re going to have to show him.” “Aye.” A single blue eye blinked open between Armand’s fingers. “Show me what?

March 28, 2005 I am so ready to be home I have already gone into autopilot mode. Just counting the days, waiting for that big bird to take me home. I am sorry to hear that you are not feeling good. Hopefully getting off the pill will help. Hopefully when I get home I can help with your emotions. Whatever you need, just tell me. I want to make things easy for you when I am home. At least as easy as possible. I love you so much gorgeous. Glad to hear your dad has busted his ass to help us out so much. We are so lucky with our family, I couldn’t have married into a better one. Not to mention couldn’t have married a better woman, cause there is none better. I also got an email from your niece. It was a PowerPoint slide that was real cute. It had a green background with a frog, and said she missed me. Sweet, huh. If she didn’t forward a copy to you, I can. Oh, about the birth control: You said you wanted ten kids anyway. Change your mind yet? What is Bubba doing that has changed? Is he being a fart or is he just full of energy? I’m sure when I get home you will be ready for a break. How about after I get to see you for a little while, you go to a spa for a weekend to be pampered? I REALLY think you deserve it. You’ve been going and going, kinda like the Energizer Bunny. Just like when I get home for sex, we keep going and going and going and going and, you get the point. Hopefully you at least smiled over that. I always want you to be happy, and want to do whatever it takes to make it happen. Even if it means buying a Holstein cow. Yuk! That’s big time love. Wow. I hope you have a good day, and can find time in the day to rest. I love you more than you will ever know. Smooooooch! -XOXOOXOXOXOXOXOX

Not every time Self Love means pampering your wants, sometimes it just means to pat yourself while knowing you did the right thing by choosing the path of Patience. Sometimes it's just waking up in the morning and telling yourself, you've got this. Sometimes it is as simple as a cup of coffee or a hot shower after a really tiresome day. Sometimes it's just watching the day pass by, while you take time to assimilate your thoughts and let your mind detangle in the simplicity of literally not doing anything. Sometimes it's the urge to find a reason and purpose to carry on, to feel alive, to live. Sometimes it's watching the sunset paint in a beautiful horizon and sometimes it's just keeping awake just to catch a glimpse of the rising Sun. Sometimes it's getting drenched in the rain or simply madly crazily dancing in the rain not caring of what or who passes by. Because who knows how long you got this dance of Life. Sometimes it's pulling yourself up and letting your heart know all that happens has a reason and you don't have to know all of it. Really you don't have to have all the answers, trusting the Universe is always the Only answer. Sometimes it's just reminding yourself that you can't change the past but value what your past has taught you, that you can't write your future entirely because circumstances always play a part but you can work through your present, you can live and make your present a gift, a present that your future would feel good about. Sometimes it's just knowing that disciplining Life is never easy but that always finds the lasting smile in the end. Sometimes it's just holding on with all your Soul to know that you have done your bit, to know that somewhere someday everything will make sense. Sometimes it's just to know that goals aren't always about achieving something but to be some more of yourself by truly loving yourself, a little bit more each passing day. Love & Light, always - Debatrayee

Not everytime Self Love means pampering your wants, sometimes it just means to pat your self while knowing you did the right thing by choosing the path of Patience. Sometimes it's just waking up in the morning and telling your self, you've got this. Sometimes it is as simple as a cup of coffee or a hot shower after a realy tiresome day. Sometimes it's just watching the day pass by, while you take time to assimilate your thoughts and let your mind detangle in the simplicity of literally not doing anything. Sometimes it's the urge to find a reason and purpose to carry on, to feel alive, to live. Sometimes it's watching the sunset paint in a beautiful horizon and sometimes it's just keeping awake just to catch a glimpse of the rising Sun. Sometimes it's getting drenched in the rain or simply madly crazily dancing in the rain not caring of what or who passes by. Because who knows how long you got this dance of Life. Sometimes it's pulling yourself up and letting your heart know all that happens has a reason and you don't have to know all of it. Really you don't have to have all the answers, trusting the Universe is always the Only answer. Sometimes it's just reminding yourself that you can't change the past but value what your past has taught you, that you can't write your future entirely because circumstances always play a part but you can work through your present, you can live and make your present a gift, a present that your future would feel good about. Sometimes it's just knowing that disciplining Life is never easy but that always finds the lasting smile in the end. Sometimes it's just holding on with all your Soul to know that you have done your bit, to know that somewhere someday everything will make sense. Sometimes it's just to know that goals aren't always about achieving something but to be some more of your self by truly loving your self, a little bit more each passing day. Love & Light, always - Debatrayee

I was not above filching empty candy bar wrappers from trash bins at the park or picking up the back cards of batteries from store parking lots. My children all sported Hershey shirts but ate very few of the required candy bars themselves to get them. Trips to the pool were the most rewarding, where candy was sold at the concession stand and the trash receptacles were overflowing with wrappers. On neighborhood trash day, the children and I walked up and down the alleys, where we confiscated extra Pampers points to send in for savings bonds and toys. Even the tennis shoes my children wore on these jaunts were obtained free from the Huggies diaper company.

When Christ is supreme in the heart, joy fills it. When He is Lord of every desire, the Source of every motive, the Subjugator of every lust, then will joy fill the heart and praise ascend from the lips. The possession of this involves taking up the cross every hour of the day; God has so ordered it that we cannot have the one without the other. Self-sacrifice, the cutting off of a right hand, the plucking out of a right eye, are the avenues through which the Spirit enters the soul, bringing with Him the joys of God’s approving smile and the assurance of His love and abiding presence. Much also depends upon the spirit in which we enter the world each day. If we expect people to pet and pamper us, disappointment will make us fretful. If we desire our pride to be ministered to, we are dejected when it is not. The secret of happiness is forgetting self and seeking to minister to the happiness of others. "It is more blessed to give than to receive," so it is a happier thing to minister to others than to be ministered to.

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Lakia yawns. “I hope all your courtesans aren’t defeated so easily.” “Yes, it will make for a tedious day,” Tarek replies, sipping his flask. I cut them a glare. Ameya just sacrificed her life. She wanted freedom from being a courtesan so much that death was a better alternative. I want to shred Tarek’s pampered face with my nails, but I do as Mathura said. I absorb my hatred and let it feed me, transforming it into something bigger, meaner, uglier. I will wait. I will crouch in the dark until the time is ripe, and then I will eat Rajah Tarek alive.

Hi.” Sarah says and lifts her hand to wiggle her fingers. She’s grinning, the goofy grin of a woman on some serious painkillers. “Aww, you came to see me.” I can’t move yet. I’m paralyzed with overwhelming relief and love and fear. “They said you were shot.” “Well, I was grazed, really,” Sarah says with a giggle. “It’s just a flesh wound.” “Whatever, Monty Python." I’m left with the woman of my dreams. And she’s whole and healthy and she’s going to be okay. “Hi there, handsome,” she says with that goofy smile. “Hi.” I sit on the bed at her hip and drag my fingers down her flawless cheek. “You just took about ten years off my life.” “It’s only a flesh wound,” she says again in that horrible British accent, making me smile at her. “God, baby,” I inhale deeply and bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. “God, if it had been two inches to the right—” “I know,” she assures me and plunges her fingers in my hair, holding on tight. “I know. But it wasn’t. And I’m okay.” She shifts on the bed and hisses in pain. “But it burns like a mother ducker.” I pull back and grin. “Ducker?” “Auto correct of the mouth. I have to have it turned on because I have a five-year-old.” She smirks. “You’re hot.” “You’re drunk.” “Really good drugs for this flesh wound.” “Your British accent is horrible.” “There’s no need to insult me,” she says with a frown. “I’ve been shot for godsake. You’re supposed to baby me and pamper me and bend to my will.” “I’ve been bending to your will since day one.” “As if.” She rolls her eyes, then closes them and moans softly. “Do you need more medicine?” “Nah.” She smiles, but her eyes are still closed. “I’m just sleepy.” “Sweetheart, I need you to stay awake for a minute, okay?” “Okay.” But she doesn’t open her eyes. I lean in and kiss her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “Wake up, baby.” “Okay,” she repeats and forces her eyes open. “There you are.” “Here I am.” I swallow and look at her perfect lips, then into her amazing eyes. Why have I been such a stubborn ass? Why couldn’t I admit before how much I love her? God, I almost lost her. “I love you, Sarah.” “Wow. These drugs are good. I just dreamed that you said you love me.” I grin again and kiss her cheek. “I did. I love you so much. For those few moments that I thought I might lose you…it was agony, Sarah. I didn’t want another minute to go by without telling you that I love you because I realize how short life can be, and we shouldn’t waste it.” “This is a very serious conversation for someone on hard narcotics,” she says, but she cups my face in her hands and looks deeply into my eyes. “But I love you too, handsome. I love you so much that it hurts, and let me tell you, that’s a lot.” “It sounds like a lot,” I reply and lean my forehead on hers. “Don’t ever scare me like this again.” “Scared me too,” she admits softly. “I just found you.” “You’re stuck with me, baby.” “Good. I love you, too. Both of you.” “Both of us?” “There are two of you right now.” She giggles softly. “And I think I’m going to pass out.” “Go ahead. I have you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.

I had awoken my strength. I would not endure humiliation at Albert’s hands again, whether personal or professional. If Albert didn’t appreciate the meek helpmate I had become in our latter years together—the failed physicist from whom he could pilfer ideas at will and the wife bendable at his beckoning—he positively loathed the return of the old Mileva in Berlin. And that was precisely who would greet him at the door when he returned from his cowardly flight to his lover, Elsa. The very thought of Elsa—all perfumed and dyed blond hair, exactly the sort of idle, pampered, bourgeois woman about which Albert used to complain—sickened me. Less because she had “stolen” Albert from me and more because of her perfidy. “Please, Mrs. Einstein, allow me to help you,” Elsa had said with an obsequious smile when the boys and I went to Berlin alone in the days after Christmas to find an apartment. Albert had sent her over to the hotel to “assist” us without my foreknowledge. Staring at the ruby-red smile painted upon her lips, I couldn’t speak. Her audacity coming here, seeking out the woman she’d betrayed, silenced me. Elsa, as she insisted we call her, continued regardless.

My Mission (The Sonnet) I am not here to inspire butcher doctors, I am here to build humanitarian doctors. I am not here to entertain reckless coders, I am here to invigorate humanitarian coders. I am not here to arouse mindless engineers, I am here to torque up humanitarian engineers. I am not here to pamper crooked politicians, I am here to wake up the brave world builders. I am not here to applaud counterfeit philanthropy, I am here to energize humanitarian entrepreneurs. I am not here to peddle the glory of logic over life, I'm here to raise humanitarian scientists 'n philosophers. There is no rest till humanity courses through human veins. My mission is to flood the world with humanitarians by the thousands.

Indulge in some "you" time because self-care isn't selfish; it's self-preservation with a side of sass! Treat yourself like the VIP you are, whether it's a spa day or a Netflix binge in your PJs. Remember, you're the CEO of your life, so make executive decisions about your well-being. After all, a little self-care goes a long way in keeping your mind sharp, your heart happy, and your spirit sassy! So go ahead, pamper yourself like the fabulous boss you are!

God's love is not a pampering love. God's love is a perfecting love. God does not get up every day trying to figure how He can plant a bigger smile on your face. God is in the process of growing us and changing us. His love is a transforming love.

so supportive to her, helping her through the first rough days after the ordeal in the barn. She just couldn’t bear to tell him she knew his leg was better. So, she pampered him anyway. He deserved it. She had chided him gently

Lynetta bared her wickedly sharp pointed canines and hissed. Her long black hair hung wildly to her hips, tangled and teased by the breeze. She was petite like me but as strong as a male body builder. Her grip on Dominic remained iron tight. Her soul-less black eyes, vacant and without a care, really ate away at my heart. I surveyed the yard for any kind of weapon I could use against the vampire. My heart surged when I spied a colorful whirligig attached to a wooden stake embedded in my mother's pampered pansy garden nearby. Without a second's hesitation, I dashed for it and yanked it out. Running at the vampire, I screamed at the top of my lungs, "Death to the blood sucky vampire!" which gave me some courage. It wasn't every day I had to beat one vampire off of another when they didn't even really exist!

Wesley declared, “Some have exalted religious fasting beyond all Scripture and reason; and others have utterly disregarded it.7 In studiously avoiding the one, let us watch against the other. The much more prevalent error of our day is an easy indulgence which permits us to pamper the flesh when we should buffet it; to feast and enjoy ourselves when we ought to fast and to pray.

Angry tears stung her eyes. Tension built and boiled inside her. Her cheeks grew hot with suppressed anger, her movements became jerky and abrupt. She shoved an errant strand of hair out of her face, stormed to the washstand — And collided with her husband. He had been coming toward her with a piece of wet linen and a bowl half-filled with water. As he and Juliet bounced off each other, some of the water spilled onto the carpet, the rest down the front of his waistcoat. Ignoring it, Gareth held out the damp rag like a truce offering. "Here." "What's that for?" "She needs washing, doesn't she?" "What do you know about babies?" "Come now, Juliet. I am not entirely lacking in common sense." "I wonder," she muttered, spitefully. He summoned a polite though confused smile — and that only stoked Juliet's temper all the more. She did not want him to be such a gentleman, damn it!  She wanted a good, out-and-out row with him. She wanted to tell him just what she thought of him, of his reckless spending, of his carefree attitude toward serious matters. Oh, why hadn't she married someone like Charles — someone capable, competent, and mature? "What is wrong, Juliet?" "Everything!" she fumed. She plunged the linen in the bowl of water and began swabbing Charlotte's bottom. "I think Perry was right. We should go straight back to your brother, the duke." "You should not listen to Perry." "Why not? He's got more sense than you and the rest of your friends combined. We haven't even been married a day, and already it's obvious that you're hopelessly out of your element. You have no idea what to do with a wife and daughter. You have no idea where to go, how to support us — nothing. Yet you had to come charging after us, the noble rescuer who just had to save the day. I'll bet you didn't give any thought at all to what to do with us afterward, did you? Oh!  Do you always act before thinking? Do you?" He looked at her for a moment, brows raised, stunned by the force of her attack. Then he said dryly, "My dear, if you'll recall, that particular character defect saved your life. Not to mention the lives of the other people on that stagecoach." "So it did, but it's not going to feed us or find us a place to live!"  She lifted Charlotte's bottom, pinned a clean napkin around the baby's hips, and soaped and rinsed her hands. "I still cannot believe how much money you tossed away on a marriage license, no, a bribe, this morning, nor how annoyed you still seem to be that we didn't waste God-knows-how-much on a hotel tonight. You seem to have no concept of money's value, and at the rate you're going, we're going to have to throw ourselves on the mercy of the local parish or go begging in the street just to put food in our bellies!" "Don't be ridiculous. That would never happen." "Why wouldn't it?" "Juliet, my brother is the Duke of Blackheath. My family is one of the oldest and richest in all of England. We are not going to starve, I can assure you." "What do you plan to do, then, work for a living? Get those pampered, lily-white hands of yours dirty and calloused?

The thrill of getting back together, the passion for the forbidden, for novelty, the need to see each other constantly, to adore each other when they were together and despair when they were apart, all of that would be jeopardized by their constant proximity. Doing nothing all day long was boring. They began to grow tired of each other. To prolong their mutual passion, they had to work at it: the beautiful clothes, the refinement, the preparations, the primping and pampering. It was the great winding down, the neglect of the self and the other, the end of the magnificent lie that had allowed them, until then, to be perfect, beautiful, impeccable, always happy, always alert, which was suddenly slipping away.

Our people have been tested while you have become soft and flabby. Even if this coronavirus takes root here in America, let’s be realistic. Sacrifice never comes to American shores. In a global pandemic, you will continue to enjoy life in restaurants and taverns and crowd the beaches while swapping breaths filled with bat fluids. Could you have taken high casualties as we did during World War II, our cities surrounded by enemy troops during a cold winter at Leningrad, where we stood fast for over eight hundred days? No, for you Americans, nothing should interfere with your right to party. To observe one of your sacred Capitalist holidays like Black Friday, a perfect image for your society, where, if you are not fast or greedy enough, you get trampled. You Americans don’t know hardship. You’ve become bloated. The airlines have had to create bigger seats to accommodate your fat asses, yet you’re always telling pollsters the country is moving in the wrong direction. Slothful. Pampered. Life has never been a spring break for us Russians. Life was not a social for Marina, yet she produced four-to-six liners that were like little jewels. Her Palm Sunday poem, “1920” for example.’ Reciting the poem, he closed his eyes like Andrei Voznesensky when reciting a poem. He had Voznesensky’s tight, intense face.

...while you´re a pampered hamster and it´s a pretty bloody brilliant treadmill, at the end of the day you´re still a hamster on a treadmill.

Look at Matthew 11:16-19, “But whereunto shall I liken this generation? It is like unto children sitting in the markets, and calling unto their fellows, and saying, we have piped unto you, and ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented. For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, He hath a devil. The son of man came eating and drinking, and they say, behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners.  But wisdom is justified of her children.” What a description of this generation! John the Baptist came fasting, and Jesus came feasting, and they called John a demoniac and Jesus a glutton. Nothing suited them. They were like spoiled children who’ve had too many toys.  Today, our churches are filled with spoiled "adults." They’ve been petted and pampered and no kind of preaching pleases them. If the wrath of God is preached, the minister is too severe. If the love of God is proclaimed, he’s too sentimental. If he speaks in a low tone of voice, he’s dull. If he speaks in a loud voice, he’s deafening. If he stands still, he’s a statue. If he moves around, he’s a sensationalist. That used to bother me a lot until I learned how to identify these children of the marketplace. They play, they pipe, they play a wedding, they mourn, they play funeral; and it looks real, but it’s all make-believe.  And we play church just like that. I was invited to Fremont Temple in Boston some time ago for an evangelistic conference, and the pastor said, “We're so worried about playing church.” Well, I’ve heard that many times before, but what a common thing it is today to play at it and our Lord called it play acting, hypocrisy: spiritual babies who won’t grow up. The Apostle Paul experienced the same problem in the church in his day. He said, "And I, brethren, could not speak unto you as unto spiritual, but as unto carnal, even as unto babes in Christ. I have fed you with milk, and not with meat: for hitherto ye were not able to bear it, neither yet now are ye able," (I Cor.3:1-2). We have overgrown babies who have become such as have need of milk but not of meat, 150 and 200 pound church babies who keep the pastor busy running around with a milk bottle when they ought to have been on meat a long time ago. And, then when they call a new pastor, they say, “I don’t like him. He changed my formula.” Ah, they’re a headache and a heartache to any pastor, pouting and selfish to whom John the Baptist would be only a demoniac and Jesus a glutton.

Between pampering each other, hell lot of teasing, making love, and then pampering each other more, we get abundantly used to each other. We never say, every other day, that we know we cannot be apart from each other. We just do not want to be. We like it together and we just know that we shall be together, for life.

Every afternoon, when we parted, I walked back home dreaming about the moment when I would rescue her from that existence marked by absences, from that night visitor who scared her, from that pampered life that stole the light from her with every passing day. Every afternoon I told myself that I wasn't going to forget her and that, so long as I remembered her, I'd be able to save her.

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All the girls are out for a pamper day.” “Not true,” Ringo nods to Goldie, who gets herself back on the stool next to him, her lip curled in disgust. “Since you find me so repulsive,” he goes on, “why don’t you join the girls for a pamper day?” “Why don’t you,” she retorts, looking down at her watch, “have a colonic, since you’re so full of shit too. It’s nearly time to evacuate.

The Times Childhood that loved stories Time to pamper nature... feet that don't hate sand... Eyes without panic. The days when mischief poured love. Adolescence where words built faith. A time when failures are priceless.. Hopeful days... struggling with emotions... Youth built a palace with dreams. A time when panic made efforts. Days of survival... Old age where the glances are merciful. Autumn years...Hopeless days. Building engrams of regrets... making carvings of achievements. Time to hate the soil...

I am addicted to comfort,” I thought as I tumbled into the wood chips. I have become divorced from nature; I don’t know what the names of the trees and birds are. I don’t know what berries to eat or which stars will guide me home. I don’t know how to sleep outside in a wood or skin a rabbit. We have become like living cutlets, sanitized into cellular ineptitude. They say that supermarkets have three days’ worth of food. That if there was a power cut, in three days the food would spoil. That if cash machines stopped working, if cars couldn’t be filled with fuel, if homes were denied warmth, within three days we’d be roaming the streets like pampered savages, like urban zebras with nowhere to graze. The comfort has become a prison; we’ve allowed them to turn us into waddling pipkins. What is civilization but dependency? Now, I’m not suggesting we need to become supermen; that solution has been averred before and did not end well. Prisoners of comfort, we dread the Apocalypse. What will we do without our pre-packed meals and cozy jails and soporific glowing screens rocking us comatose? The Apocalypse may not arrive in a bright white instant; it may creep into the present like a fog. All about us we may see the shipwrecked harbingers foraging in the midsts of our excess. What have we become that we can tolerate adjacent destitution? That we can amble by ragged despair at every corner? We have allowed them to sever us from God, and until we take our brothers by the hand we will find no peace.

We live in a time when everyone must bear arms on behalf of something on the outside of them that moves on the inside of their hearts. We no longer live in an era where peace was equivalent to detachment. Peace thanks to detachment is just an unwillingness to commit to being alive. That era is over. Peace by means of invalidation is over. Peace through the validation of what is essential to others, is the only way through this now. I validate you, you validate me, we validate each other, we are attached to each other. Peace through the acknowledgement of what is human. This is the way forward. "Invalidation" is an act of tyranny that is carried out daily at the personal level, between friends, family, lovers, co-workers, etc. It is the easiest and most prevalent form of "little tyrannies" that are enacted upon, and are carried out every day. Invalidating another's experience, feeling, thought, action, by making it seem irrelevant or small, is cowardice, and at the root of it is a fear of living life beyond your own borders. We talk about national borders all the time, when in reality, it's the borders that we place between ourselves and the people close to us, that take profound effect in human lives, on the daily. There is even a spiritual movement in the New Age group that focuses so much on putting up borders, that these borders are simply passive aggressive behaviours designed to pamper a person in their own preconceived or misconceived bubbles. The borders are old and that era is over. Peace in this new era is not about sitting on top of a rock in alienation to gain a selfish version of peace. Peace, in our new era now, is about the realisation that peace for all is peace for one! We now bear arms for battles happening beyond our own little worlds because this is what it means to be the new human.

As passionate as you are about the causes you support and the freedoms you defend, sometimes trying to stay on top of the news and outreach can exhaust you. Sometimes it’s best for you to step back from it all and heal your stress in order to be in tip-top shape to get back into the fight. But not everyone has the privilege of stepping away, you might say. “How can I take the option to step out of the ring when there are people dying, starving, being oppressed?” you ask. Comparing your personal state to someone else’s is a recipe for ducking out of self-care. Someone will always be worse off. That doesn’t mean you should avoid taking care of yourself right now. Live to fight another day. Take time off to recharge and regroup, and bring your best self back to support your cause.

Because of that lack of stimulation, a result of most dogs being alone for much of the day and allowed to express their natural behaviors only briefly, “many cattle have better lives than some of the pampered pets.” That’s a provocative statement, but I think it is one we should all keep in mind in assessing our expectations when considering bringing a dog into our lives.

Just how did you know where this guy grew up?!" "Was it mere coincidence?! No way! This has to be deliberate! But how?! What kind of magic trick is this, Miss Yamato Nadeshiko?!" "Um, it's kind of hard to explain but... sometimes there's a certain lilt to how you pronounce your words. It sounded an awful lot like the lyrical accent unique to that area." "Huh?" "Eheh heh... when I'm not paying attention, sometimes my hometown accent slips outdo. Given your outfits and brand choices, I figured you were American... so I wondered if you were born in the South near the Gulf of Mexico... which made me think you probably had gumbo a lot growing up." "Well, I'll be! You managed to deduce all that?" "Was I right? Oh, I'm so glad!" "No way! I don't believe it! Just who are you?! How can you even figure something like that out?!" "Eheheh heh... it wasn't much. I've just been doing some studying, is all." "Voila. C'est votre monnaie. Au revoir, bonne journée." "Merci!" In the few months since earning my Seat on the Council of Ten... I took advantage of some of the perks it gave me... to visit a whole bunch of different countries. I went to all kinds of regions and met all kinds of people... learning firsthand what it feels like to live and thrive there. I experienced the "taste of home" special to each place... and incorporated it into my own cooking... so that I could improve a little as a chef! "And that's how you knew about gumbo? But still! All you did was make a dish from my hometown. That's it! There's no way it should've overwhelmed me this much! Why?! How could you manage something like that?!" "I think it's because, deep down, this is what you've truly been searching for. Um, to go back to what I mentioned to you earlier... I think you might have the wrong idea. I'm pretty sure that isn't what real hospitality is. In your heart, the kind of hospitality you're truly looking for... isn't to be pampered and treated like a king for a day. If that kind of royal luxury was all you were looking for... you wouldn't need to come all the way to Japan. You could have just reserved a suite at any international five-star hotel to get that experience. But you said you specifically liked Japan's rural hot springs resort towns. The kind of places so comfortable and familiar they tug at your heart... places that somehow quietly remind you of home. "I think... no, I know... ... that what you really want... ... is simply a warm, gentle hug.

For serious problems you should schedule two sessions a day: half an hour before lunch and half an hour before dinner. Write them down in your engagement book. Give them priority. […] For less serious problems, ten minutes morning and night will get you into trim and keep you there. Or twenty minutes once a day, if that fits your schedule better. And don’t forget the while-you’re-doing-something routines. You can be pampering your body most of the day if you remember them, and your body will be very grateful.

The apprentice is required to master many techniques before receiving safari guide certification. Among the most difficult and essential of these skills is the ancient practice of unihemispheric slow-wave sleeping. The ability to sleep with half of the brain while the other remains completely alert, alternating between hemispheres, allows the guide to remain conscious twenty-four hours a day. This unconventional method has been observed in a number of terrestrial, aquatic and avian species, particularly those that dwell in areas of high predation. It is strongly recommended that safari guides avoid full REM sleep while guiding safaris. Though, when charged with the care of the most demanding and pampered of clients, a traditional fifteen minute nap is occasionally permitted.

If the floating cultura contained its fair share and then some of subsidized children of fortune, wealthy sybarites, refugees from ennui, and their attendant parasitic organisms, did these not serve as a communal matrix for the merchants, artists, scientist, aesthetes, and pilgrims who travelled among the stars for higher purposes? In ancient days, the courts of monarchs served as similar distillations of the more rarefied essences of human culture; these too were gilded cages filled with self-pampered birds of paradise, but in their precincts were to be found the philosophers, artists, and mages of the age.

some days I feel so deep inside my life I don’t think I’ll ever get out again

It's a bad world, I tell you. We remember Elephants on #WorldElephantDay, pamper our mother on #Mothersday emphathize for child labors on #WorldLaborDay save electiricity on #EarthDay

In that day every trial borne in patience will be pleasing and the voice of iniquity will be stilled; the devout will be glad; the irreligious will mourn; and the mortified body will rejoice far more than if it had been pampered with every pleasure. Then the cheap garment will shine with splendor and the rich one become faded and worn; the poor cottage will be more praised than the gilded palace. In that day persevering patience will count more than all the power in this world; simple obedience will be exalted above all worldly cleverness; a good and clean conscience will gladden the heart of man far more than the philosophy of the learned; and contempt for riches will be of more weight than every treasure on earth.

Annie sat back in her chair and smiled at him. He had been so supportive to her, helping her through the first rough days after the ordeal in the barn. She just couldn’t bear to tell him she knew his leg was better. So, she pampered